


Midgardsormr

by Abby_Ebon



Series: It's Not A Rabbit Hat [52]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And one of the Valar, F/M, Harry is a Dragon, M/M, Valar are one big family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:31:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abby_Ebon/pseuds/Abby_Ebon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haltia’s prompt: </p><p>Harry as a (shape-shifting) dragon, takes an interest in something pretty and sparkly and just wants to keep it to himself. Possibly cross-over with LotR, with the pretty-sparkly being, for example, Glorfindel, or Haldir, or ever-cliche Legolas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midgardsormr

**Author's Note:**

> Midgardsormr means “Midgard Serpent”, Midgard refers to Middle Earth in Old English. It’s an Old English kenning for Jörmungandr. Tokien calls his fire-serpents uruloki. So it seemed fitting. Dragons on Middle Earth have never quite been explained in origin, at least not to my satisfaction. 
> 
> Also, if you do not have some knowledge of The Hobbit’s endings (that being the book) or of The Silmarillion it may get confusing, but basically LotR never went into the history of Middle Earth’s origins the way that Christopher Tolkien has published in his father’s notes. Take a peek at “One Wiki To Rule Them All” if you want to learn more as the story goes on.

He hatches from the shards of the Heart of the Mountain, the Arkenstone broken before the eyes of hobbit, dwarf, man and elf alike, the son of Smaug breaths his first breath – and opens green eyes to see.

 

He is weak and panting, helpless, a slender serpent that can be cradled in the hands of any of them. All may see him at this, his weakest moment, his birth. But it is the elves _he_ sees first, shinning in shades of gold and silver, their hair no matter. It is within that he _sees_. They are all lovely.

 

His treasures, better and more brilliant than Smaug’s greedy accounting of the Lonely Mountain’s gold and gemstones, mithril and silver, elf gems, pearls, the many faceted crystals of emerald, sapphire and diamond. Here is a treasure greater than that hoard, for he alone of his kind has had the eyes to see it first.

 

None of his kind has been born outside his or her Mountain, with no nest to see; he lies in the shadow of the Lonely Mountain, Erebor, and knows he is lost - lonely, perhaps the last of his twisted kin.

“Midgardsormr.” Is a hiss, a word, a name? He hears it, and it is _his_. He flicks his forked tongue out in pleasure, to taste the Middle Earth he is serpent of. It is pleasing. His birth ends a battle, as before – but he does not remember before – or is it a life that will come after this? A dwarf that looks down at him in some dismay; without him within it, the Arkenstone does not shine, is nothing more than a brittle rock, worthless.

He has been told of this one by Smaug, this is Thorin Oakenshield, dwarf prince.

 

“I am not sorry I am not what I was.” Midgardsormr tells the dwarf, who looks surprised that he speaks. Of course he speaks, Smaug spoke, so he does, do they not all hear the song of Eru?

 

“I would not think you would be…was it always you within the Arkenstone?” Thorin asks as he picks the dragon up from the broken shards. Midgardsormr tucks his forelegs beneath his chest, keeping his wings pressed against his back, breathing in the fire and the air. His scaled skin is wet and weak, and he is cold, and he knows he must dry off by this fire to have the hard scales of his kind and fire kindled within him, to make his breath burn.

 

“Of course I am the Heart of the Lonely Mountain, Smaug came because I was found, and I was not supposed to be. It was too soon.” _This_ is too soon, Smaug would still say. Much too soon, and perhaps this is why he remembers being a wizard – and the before after of being more and greater, like and unlike theIstari who were the chosen messengers among the Maiar, those lesser among the Ainur who are helpers of their great Valar kin.

 

“I am cold, Olórin. Am I to die?” Midgardsormr asks of him, and the wizard’s puff of breath catches like a cloud in the stillness of the night. It forms a ring, he alone sees the serpent biting it’s own tail, endless, a warning – and a hope, perhaps. Thorin looks guilty, and holds him out for Olórin, who smokes a pipe and is nearest to the fire, to take. The Istar does so, cupping both hands together and Midgardsormr carefully slithers in-between those cavern like palms, Olórin brings them to his knees, and from there Midgardsormr can see them one and all.   

 

“It has been a long time since I have heard that name, little uruloki. I have had many names, Man calls me Gandalf, Elves name me Mithrandir, and the Dwarves favor Tharkûn. How do you know _my_ name?” Midgardsormr still shivers, but Olórin holds him, cradles him, coddles him, if he had hatched before Smaug as he has now – Smaug would have ate him – but he is slowly thawing from the cold of Void that calls to him. Eru’s song is greater; a song rises within him to answer. It is not merely duty, it is who he is, a destiny of who he will be.

 

“I hear the song, the One God Eru sings.” In it, he does not have to tell this Istar, is _everything_ …

 

“He speaks of Ilúvatar.” It is an elf who speaks, Midgardsormr purrs approval, while Olórin looks down upon him in amusement. There is a gentle teasing in those grey sky eyes. The Istar lets him loose from his hands and Midgardsormr rises up, green eyes shining in the firelight, all black scales and gilding ruby red-edged. He tries to be as big as he can be, wings stretching out, the air tugs upon them playful and inviting. He is dry enough to warm himself now.

 

“Of course he does. No, Midgardsormr, I think you will live as long as it pleases you to do so.” Midgardsormr glances to Olórin over his shoulder, asking the Istar with his eyes if he can fly. Olórin tilts his head in acknowledgement, Midgardsormr may try, and if he fails this first flight, Olórin will ensure he comes to no harm.

 

Midgardsormr does not flap his wings, he is not a bird, instead he falls with wings wide open, a fall that is no fall at all, but a glide that takes him to the shoulders of the elf who had spoken. Thranduil he is. Elvenking. Pretty.

 

Midgardsormr’s purr becomes something like a rumble, and he tucks his head under Thranduil’s chin and bumps his head under it, playful. An elf who stands nearby, watching all this, laughs, and from that laugh Midgardsormr knows Glorfindel. Who is also Midgardsormr’s of course. All the elves are - they simply don’t know it yet.

 

Thranduil offers his hands, and Midgardsormr goes into them, elf and dragon look at each other, eye to eye. Their stares are neither serious, but rather curious. Bard, the man, chuckles and doesn’t hide his grin when Thranduil looks to him with raised brows.

 

“Have you yet hatched a dragon, slayer of Smaug?” Bard shrugs his shoulders, as if he could not have done either differently. What is done is done, and Bard isn’t the sort to be guilty over an Elvenking’s ego.

 

“On this day, and no other, I pray.” Midgardsormr meets the man’s gaze, and think it best they know how he came to be. 

 

“I will be the last of the uruloki, the fire serpents, those born of the Secret Flame of Eru Ilúvatar. As Melkor twisted Maiar to be Balrog, so he twisted those Ainur who would have been Valar had he not bred and tricked and twisted them into Uruloki. Eru’s thought brought me last from the Void, so I am last born of those worthy to be called uruloki in truth.” Thranduil runs a finger along Midgardsormr’s spine, making him shiver away from those most dark memories. If it was wondered why dragons were twisted, greedy and terrible, what he spoke was true – but not the whole truth. He hissed softly, making it clear he would not speak of it further.

 

Olórin’s eyes are heavy with sympathy. Midgardsormr would not see him weep.

 

“And what will you now do, little uruloki?” It is not the Elvenking who asks, but Glorfindel. As it is an elf that asks, Midgardsormr is pleased to answer.

 

“I will go with you to greet Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, but of course.” Glorfindel’s smile is slight, but his nod noble.

 

“Of course…” While Mirkwood is still the larger forest dwelling of the elves, Lothlórien is by far lovelier.

  

“We will go now, while there is time to flee from the Battle of Five Armies.” Midgardsormr insists, sad sounding, and only Olórin sees the small dragon’s true distress.

 

“Neither of us, small one, is born crowned with the power we will one day have.” Olórin tells him, as Thranduil passes Midgardsormr to Glorfindel. He goes willingly, for it is where he wants to be -where he must be.

 

“What I once had, Olórin, I will have again, it is mine and I will not waste what little time is left with waiting.” Midgardsormr flicks his tongue determinedly, and glances to the hobbit. His tail twists at what he senses. There is perhaps just enough time for him to grow to be as powerful as he promises. Dragons grow too slowly, this they both know. So Midgardsormr must be other, stranger, shape-changer. With the Lord and Lady’s blessing he might just manage it.

 

He perches upon Glorfindel’s shoulder and tries not to dig his claws in when the golden haired elf stands and walks away from the fire, going to where the white elf-steed Asfaloth awaits. The elf mounts with an ease and grace that fills Midgardsormr with envy.

 

“To Lothlórien.” Glorfindel urges Asfaloth, knowing he will be obeyed by his elf steed. Such steeds can race the wind, and are thrice more swift. So he knows as dawn breaks, that he will be where he desires before nightfall.

 

It had never been known – even among Glorfindel’s own wise people – not one of them dared guess why dragons did as they willed, winged or wyrms or drakes, they had a cunning intellect, dangerous and arrogant, and no elf dared match wit or wisdom with them. One wrong word and a furious dragon knew no mercy.

 

Not since Glaurung had done such terrible deeds unto Nienor and Túrin had any elf dared. How they were born, raised – perhaps none butMorgoth was ever meant to know.

 

Glorfindel does not fool himself, he knows the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien will not in the least like what he has done, but they would like it less if Glorfindel made his way to Imladris, where Elrond dwells, the father of their only grandchildren.

 

Asfaloth is his only warning, slowing from his running to a trot, and than a walk that stops short before a marchwarden, younger than Glorfindel.  

 

“Do you need a guild, Lord Glorfindel?” Haldir asks of him, eyeing the dark limbed thing that clings beneath his neck. Midgardsormr has twisted himself about so that his head and tail can only be seen, the rest of him nests in golden hair.

 

“I do not, no; I thank you for your asking.” Glorfindel allows, and Asfaloth walks onward at a pace Haldir follows at. It seems even if he does not need a guild, he will have an escort. He can abide this company; comfortably warm ringed about his neck, Midgardsormr sleeps. Him, no elf can miss seeing. It is right that Haldir be curious and cautious.

 

“What have you about your neck, my Lord?” Glorfindel is not blind; he has seen the glances Haldir thinks he’s sneaking. He hides his smile.

 

“A newly born dragon, hatched from the Arkenstone of Erebor.” As if summoned by someone speaking about him, Midgardsormr stirs to waking. Haldir stops, stilling with his surprise, but he hurries to keep up with Asfaloth, and so the dragon sees him.

 

“Oh, hello there, you are lovely.” It is to Haldir that the dragon speaks, but Glorfindel sees the marchwarden’s eyes are wide and silver. His hair is the kind that is silver in the moonlight, and golden with the sun. Glorfindel has always his golden hair, with day or with the dark.

 

“Thank you?” Haldir asks, speaking only to be polite, but staring at Glorfindel as if asking this is some low joke.

 

“Oh, I like you, you’re nice to look at _and_ nice to speak to, Glorfindel, may we keep him?” Midgardsormr urges with a lick to his cheek, and the older elf can’t stop his smile this time.

 

“ _We_ , little one…? I am to be yours as well?” Haldir looks so quickly between the two; it’s almost as if he’s shaking his head. It’s much absurdity, but Glorfindel is curious to what the little dragon thinks. His mind, like that of his kith and kin none of them knows – save perhaps Mithrandir the Istar whom the little dragon called Olórin with such familiarity.

 

“Why, of course you are mine. All elves I would protect, for I was supposed to have you in my charge, had I not been…” Midgardsormr’s words stumble to a halt, and he is silent and still, stunned. Glorfindel reaches to touch him reassuringly and the little head rubs fondly against his palm, scales scratching and dry and warm.

 

“So be it, Midgardsormr. We will let you have our keeping.” Glorfindel winks to Haldir, who blinks and smiles timidly in return.  Elves are fond of the young, for rarely do they have them immortal as they are, elves have little fear of dying without a legacy. Against his skin, Midgardsormr purrs.

 

He purrs all the way to the heart of the elfdom of Lothlórien, Caras Galadhon, where Lady Galadriel and her silver haired Lord Celeborn greet them. They are both lovely and healthy and Midgardsormr flies to land upon Celeborn’s open hand. His wings folded against his side, he lowers his head in a nod of acknowledgement, of debt and duty.

 

Celeborn returns the nod, accepting it, graceful and peaceful. It was the wisdom and peace that Galadriel so loved. The elves had had their immortality, but they had been a scattered and scared people, both helpless and powerful by turns throughout the Ages, and no Valar had truly claimed to guide and protect them as their own. The Maiar had tried, but in the end had been not enough. Kings and queens arose from the first elves found, to lead and protect their people – and these two, Lord and Lady they may claim for a lowly title, but were of highest birth.

 

“Forgive me, Lady.” Midgardsormr looks Galadriel in the eye, and does not look away until she nods in solemn acceptance. She does not like it, does not like _him_ , but will not forbid him, will not deny what he is – or was supposed to be.

 

“How can I not? Ages here will the past of my people; soon we will go home, to the Undying Lands, where the Ainur, Valar and Maiar alike, are awaiting us. I wonder what they will make of _you_.” Galadriel leaves them at those words, walking away into the mallorn, silver wood trees with golden leaves.

 

She leaves, and Glorfindel must bite his tongue, least Celeborn turn to look at him in sorrow. Haldir, at his side, shifts uneasily.

 

“Midgardsormr…” Celeborn looks after his wives back, proud and straight, and suffering still from the loss of their daughter. Elrond had healed her, her body, but her mind was beyond his power – so Celebrían had gone to the Undying Lands, leaving her daughter Arwen to be brought up in Lothlórien. Leaving sons and husband, father and mother, fleeing from Middle Earth and the memories of what orcs had done to her; of what she would not – could not - speak.

 

Celebrían went, and Galadriel could not –dared not – follow. She knew her youthful ambitions would not lead to a warm welcome.

 

Orcs had once been elves, as Midgardsormr an uruloki had been Ainu, could have been one of the Valar. Some would forever see his corruption, he who should have been their keeper, guide and guardian, as the cause of their sorrows.

 

“Midgardsormr, are elves not Children of Ilúvatar?” Celeborn asks, tucking a finger under the dragon’s chin so he could look him in the eyes.

 

“Of course, Celeborn.” Midgardsormr agreed, for that was the fact of it.

 

“All Children of Ilúvatar have their own minds, and must be made accountable for their actions, for we made them knowing what the will of the Ainur was. You would not have stopped us, just as they could not.” Celeborn spoke, scratching under the uruloki’s chin to calm him.

 

“I could have been there. That might have been enough.” Midgardsormr closed his eyes, pained.

 

“This I greatly doubt. Our people are a stubborn sort.” Celeborn had a point, for what an elf willed to do, he or she did, and few could stand in their way and say _nay_. Their power made them akin to the forces of nature.

 

“Tell me Midgardsormr, why do you come to Lothlórien?” The dragon lay curled in the palm of the elf Lord’s hand, and Glorfindel hoped he never saw the little dragon so helpless and forlorn looking again. As if he did not know if there was a place for him here, his elves had grown fair and far away from him. He was the newly born into this world, not they, yet he still felt they were _his_.

 

Glorfindel would rather Midgardsormr be in _their_ care, to guide and protect him.

 

“To seek Irmo though Lórien, Lothlórien is as close as I may ever come to being within it, it felt safest to seek Olórë Mallë here. If I may..?” Midgardsormr, for the first time, sounds as small as he is.

 

“If it is he you seek, far be it from me to hinder you.” Midgardsormr bowed his thanks, and flew into the mallorn trees, to sleep and follow Olórë Mallë, the Path of Dreams to Lórien the garden of Vala Irmo, Master of Dreams and Desires. Glorfindel settles to sit at the base of that tree, wiling to wait and guard his sleep so he is not disturbed.

 

Midgardsormr flies, and as he flies he knows he is dreaming, for he is singing and though his surroundings are timeless and lovely, he does not stop to stare at them. Through tall trees and above the path of small pebble stones he follows, it leads to a high gate of lattice-work, shining golden in dark. Beyond them in truth Irmo awaits, in the Gardens of Lórien. He goes swiftly through the opening gates, and Irmo stands in the path before him. Midgardsormr lands on the river pebbles before the Vala. Irmo crouches down, kneels to meet him.

 

“How _small_ you’ve grown, youngest brother.” The little dragon flinches, green eyes not meeting those of Irmo.

 

“Thank you, brother, for keeping my people well.” Irmo reaches out and touches smooth black scales, where he touches like dust and ash, the black falls away, underneath is silver and gold. Irmo smiles to see it.

 

“I did what I could, we all did, for we remembered you, and feared for you. I will tell our brother Námo, he will be glad – he feared always that the Halls of Mandos or the Door of Night would take you before he or Nienna found you. Estë, my lady, she should see to your rest, none among us is a greater healer.” Irmo smiles at the thought of his wife, as if his smile is a summons, she comes up the path behind him. She sees them, and Midgardsormr, clad in scales of gold and silver, can not hide from her.

 

“Oh, what has that Melkor Morgoth done to you? You are so _small_!” It is not his body she speaks of, this he knows, but his power, his presence, no Valar – and that is what he is, or was – would be so lessened as he, less than a Maiar.

 

“I am not what I was, Estë, forgive me.” She bend to pick him up, cradling him close, breathing upon him, to give him unasked, a part of her power. With his touch, Irmo had already done as much. Her skin is damp from Lórellin, her lake. She had to have been in its waters, bathing, when Irmo called to her with his thoughts. She had come swiftly - as swiftly as Irmo has left, likely to gather the rest.

 

“Midgardsormr they call you? Nay, you are Narsil, the Sun and Moon, if Melkor had not taken and twisted you, you would not merely be Vala as I am, but Aratar, one of the most Exhalted. Arcala you are, the royal light. When we found Arda without light, the more fool Aulë was, to make the tower Helkar for the lamp Illuin, and Ringol to hold Ormal.” Estë kisses his brow, and Aulë comes to stand beside her, smiling with Yavanna on his arm. Lord of Arda, the Earth, was he – and she, the Queen of Earth, the Giver of Fruits. They were a powerful pair, both being of the eight Aratar.

 

“That was long ago Estë. I have learned to wait, after Melkor felled the towers and darkened the light of the lamps. I did not dare seek a greater nature then what I was.” Aulë’s nature is much like Melkor, so much so they have always hated each other. Yet both make great things – Melkor’s are terrible, but great.

 

“Narsil, will you come greet me?” Yavanna smiles serenely, offering her palm for Midgardsormr’s perch. He joins her gladly, unable to help purring. Aulë chuckles, not bothering to hide his amusement – but Midgardsormr can not help it. He had not hoped to be as welcomed as this by them. Aulë pets him, eyeing his scales gleefully. He is the greatest smith of the Vala and Midgardsormr fears his silver and gold hide has given the Lord of Arda ideas.   

 

“I sung the trees silver Telperion and golden Laurelin to life upon the hill Ezellohar, but your sister Nienna’s tears, for hope and healing, kept them alive. Such was her hope for you; it was…a lovely time.” Yavanna and Aulë hold him between them, while Estë smiles.

 

They give him, freely, what power they gained from the making of things that are within his nature, he grows from small and palm fitting to the length of Aulë’s arm, and the width of his waist, his wings flutter, spreading silver and gold light across the dark, like shedding stars.

 

Isil, the Moon, the last flower of silver Telperion, guided by a Maia youth Tilion is dim in comparison.

 

“I hope I did as you would have wanted, brother, and did not overreach what you would have willed.” Nienna herself speaks, and weeps, her tears joyful at this long hoped for welcoming. To her Midgardsormr goes willingly, she will never need to ask for his company, he will give it willingly, always.

 

He chirps at her, teasingly chiding. She boldly kisses his nose, and he is surprised into silence. Her power makes him grow to be too big to hold, the length of her long legs. Still she does not let him go, an Aratar need not obey laws of physical possibility.

 

Námo, lord of Halls of Mandos, has a laugh like thunder – only rarely is it heard, and he knows it and tries never to laugh – for it causes fear in lesser Ainu, to speak nothing of mortals, and he is well aware of that. That he can not help it pleases his siblings, if none of the others. Vairë touches her husband’s hand, smiling. Like Nienna, the Lord of Mandos is of the Aratar; their brother Irmo is not – and does not want to be.

 

“I think our Arcala would forgive you anything.” Námo muses, as stern as if he had not been laughing. Vairë still smiles, but she does not often speak, she hears the song of the world and Weaves it, draping the Halls of Mandos in stories, so those who wait – the elves and man- will know what goes on beyond Námo’s Hall. So they know when the wait is ended.

 

Midgardsormr wiggles out of his sister’s grip, finding it undignified to be so coddled in front of his older brother. Nienna playfully dabs at her wet eyes, as if wounded, and only when he whines in concern does she let him see her eyes shine like stars, bright and gleaming happily. Midgardsormr huffs and goes to Námo, rubbing against his legs like a large cat, and indeed Vairë pets him, and his markings form, written upon his hide, the song of Eru, ever-changing markings in ruby red against gold and silver.

 

Oromë, Lord of Forests, whistles in greeting at seeing him, coming not from the path, but from the woods, his horn Valaróma is at his side, and he is astride silver Nahar. A steed that is snow white under the light of Anar, the Sun, last fruit of golden Laurelin that was guided by the Maia maiden Arien.

 

At his side is Vána, his wife, Ever-young, who goes to greet her older sister Yavanna upon setting sight upon her. She in passing gives to Midgardsormr a ring of golden flowers that he knows he will have once he wakes, and that they will never die.

 

“I thank you, Oromë, for finding my people.” It had been this white rider who had dared the forests of Middle Earth in hunting, not for the flesh of mortal animals, but for the enemy Melkor and his beasts and servants. Hunting, and hoping, in his own way, to find those lost to darkness and shadows, those like Midgardsormr – who is burned by the question of if, if Oromë _had_ found him…

 

It is a painful thought, one they both will dwell always upon.

 

In doing his hunting, Oromë, had found the newly born elves, lost and alone in the dark – for in those days the light of the Trees did not reach beyond the shores of Aman, the Undying Lands when that land had not been hidden and sundered from Arda, the Middle Earth when it was rounded.  

 

“It was my pleasure. I became…fond of them.” Oromë smiles, and Midgardsormr can not begrudge him the finding and leading and raising of the elves. He could have chosen no better Aratar.

 

Nessa laughs and her laugh is light and ringing, she comes to greet Midgardsormr, and to laugh at her brother Oromë, teasing and gentle. She is lithe, and light of foot, quicker than any of the deer who are dear to her. One of those normally shy beasts follows her, a baby with a white hide and red eyes.

 

She is wild and wed to the warrior-like Tulkas, who follows at her heels, smiling to see them all gathered together. He, like Oromë, thinks of Malkor only as an enemy, not as one of the Valar.

 

“Merely _fond_ , my brother? Do not let him fool you Narsil, he loves the elves as the elves love the woods, he made his home their own, all the forests and woodlands he lays to their claim. I like them too, so I give them their quickness, and their grace, and they can dance upon the snow, is that not lovely?” Nessa twirls about, and ends it with a bow, and Midgardsormr can not help but bow his head in agreement.

 

She eyes him, as if wondering how swift his wings can take him and it is in her eyes to ask a race. Nessa may be the least of the Valar, but she is not without her gifts. Tulkas is tireless in his running, and likes the chase rather than the catching of his lithe and lovely wife.

 

“We gave them gifts that we could not give to you, now we are glad we gave as we did, for their company is a balm.” Tulkas knew now his handling of Fëanor, the elf maker of the Silmarils, who had gathered their light from the Trees before Melkor unmade those as well, but Tulkas had been hasty and newly come into Eä, the universe from the Timeless Halls where Ilúvatar dwelt.      

 

“I am glad.” Midgardsormr says, though he still feels little at the sight of Tulkas. It is he who touches the dragon’s brow, the last of the dust there goes, and beneath is a scar that ties his soul to another’s, the lightning bolt is white and old.

 

“Tag, Narsil you are it!” Nessa challenges, poking his shining hide. She’s gone in the time he blinks astonishment. Midgardsormr chases her, as the other Valar laugh, all save Námo – who rolls his eyes. Midgardsormr leaves them behind with a sweep of his wings, with the swiftness of the wind. He sees his shadow fall upon Nessa – and than the wind takes him higher, to Ilmarin the watchtower at the summit of Taniquetil, highest of the mountains on Arda, the Earth. It is the Holy Mountain of the range ofPelóri, there they see all of it, from the peek of Kalórmë – the next tallest of all mountains – where it lays in the Wall of the Sun, beyond the Eastern Seas, the Lands of the Sun where the Gates of Morning laid had not yet been lived upon. None dared it.

 

The giant and great eaglesof Manwë and Varda call a greeting to him, leading him up to Ilmarin – as if the very winds did not already obey Manwë. Midgardsormr lets it happen, as he is set down through what would be a wall-length window, if not for the fact that no glass is held within the frame. No wind or air or weather that Manwë does not want would cross that barrier, but Midgardsormr does – because he is wanted. He tries to calm himself at that thought.

 

Manwë stands before him, blue robed and blue eyed, with his sapphire scepter made for him by the Ñoldor, who had broken his heart in their kin slaying with other elves. Of all the Ainur, he is eldest, and King of the Valar. His lady is Varda, who has hated the brother of her husband since first setting eyes upon Melkor, long before coming into Eä. Of all Valar, Melkor retreats from her most readily.

 

Varda was concerned most with light –and it’s – his - lack, she made the stars and constellations to stand against the dark without fail – she filled the Lamps, collected the dew of the Trees into her Wells which gave light and refreshment to all who had sought it in that time. She had hallowed the Silmarils which now lay in the three realms of Arda, in the sky, beneath the earth, and within the sea.

 

She had given the Sun and Moon their courses. If Manwë can not ever understand evil, because he best understands the will of Ilúvatar – Varda does, all too well for she is of the light of Ilúvatar, and sees too true. She is closest to what Midgardsormr was meant to be, among the Valar and as anAratar. 

 

“Midgardsormr, do you fear me? None of my stars could light your way, though it was my hope to guide you home. I failed you, but Manwë and I did what we could to protect and guide your people, when they could be guided. The Vanyar we love most, and keep near us to rear. Do you yet hate me, Midgardsormr?”  Varda asks of him, looking down at him. He is aware of his tears. Her face is a solemn, doomed mask, trying for Námo’s dispassion.

 

“How can I be, Lady? You who are Elbereth Gilthoniel, star queen, star kindler. My guide.” Manwë smiles down at him, but Varda nods thoughtfully.

 

“I have looked into the mind of Melkor, and I have seen what he did to you Narsil, Arcala, Midgardsormr.” Varda kneels beside him and embraces him, shining them both in light that is silver and gold and good.

 

“I forgive you, if you forgive me.” This Varda whispered to him, and he nodded his agreement without hesitation. 

 

“You know you are welcome among us, you should stay among us, but I have seen enough of you Narsil, to know you will not. What do you will?” Manwë did not say want, or need, so Midgardsormr answered with his will.

 

“The Lords of Valar and Ladies of Valier have given me much of what I once was, and this is good. There are things that Malkor left behind him; he is no maker – only mighty, so I may yet undo that darkness – the orcs, I fear – are my fault. If I had not been...what I became – Malkor might never have made orcs from elves and man.” Manwë tilted his head thoughtfully, looking beyond Midgardsormr, to the sea, where laid Middle Earth.

 

“So you would go, while your people are welcomed among us?” Midgardsormr nodded, firm in his will. Manwë, king, Valar, Ainur, and Aratar could not sway will. Nor would he want to.

 

“So be it.” Manwë touches him with his sapphire scepter, first on his left shoulder – which faces east – and than his right, which is to the west; and as the dawn’s light touches him – he is changed, not in the shape of Midgardsormr – but as Narsil Arcala, his lightning bolt scar is silver, his skin shines with golden light, his eyes are green, and his hair is black – for Melkor had touched him, changed him – but perhaps not twisted him beyond what can be undone with light and hope and love.

 

Narsil falls from Ilmarin, and flies to the sea upon the wind that Manwë has given him, to meet Ulmo at the edge of it. Ulmo, who most loves all water, be it of the sea salt, or the rivers and fresh lakes, dresses as a wave in green gilt armor, with Ulumúri horns about his waist. It is he who guides the elves safely to these lands, and calls them home here.

 

Narsil has never hated Malkor more, and longed more for what he would have been without his evil, than at seeing UImo, who is his, as much as the elves who Ulmo loves for his sake.

 

Ulmo embraces him, the life giving waters holding to the life giving light, as is right for Ulmo lives in the very veins of Arda, the Earth – and he has been waiting and longing for Narsil, will always be near him now – the very water he drinks from, the river he swims in, the rain that plays against his skin.  

 

Narsil wakes to that feeling, living, breathing it, and longing for the sea like any elf. He knows now why they love it, and it is only _in part_ because of the Undying Lands. It is because he loves Ulmo. He was always meant to love Ulmo. Narsil knows he can not be swept away by the tide of Ulmo’s over welcoming; welcoming love, there will be time enough for them, after his will is done. It is a goal – and Ulmo the reward, the for he is never far away. Ulmo sees and hears all that water is.

 

Narsil wipes the wetness from his eyes, for he is not like his weeping sister Nienna – his weeping heals nothing - and rubs his old silver scar, and stares at gold leaves until he gets an idea, and jumps down from the tree to speak to Glorfindel and Haldir who are still below.

 

He is face to face with an arrow – and a sword, before he thinks of what shape he wore before and Narsil laughs at having forgotten his form.

 

He is again Midgardsormr, the size of a horse now, scales shining silver and gold and he flicks his forked tongue at them, teasing. Glorfindel puts away his sword, looking as if he does not believe what he sees standing in front of him. Haldir tucks his arrows into the quiver at his back. They are wary of him, but willing to listen.

 

That is, in the end, what he needs and wants and wills.

 

Together they go East.

**Author's Note:**

> Tolkien never went into much detail about what became of Mohrinehtar (Alatar) and Rómestámo (Pallando), the Maiar who served as Istari wizards, he seems to think they either failed – or succeeded and made all the unseen difference, but Glorfindel might have been a shipmate of them, and there is some question of if Glorfindel of Gondolin might have been reincarnated as Glorfindel of Rivendell.


End file.
